


An Affair

by LePetitChouNerd



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Affairs, Explicit Sex, F/M, Guilt, Porn, Sex, age gap, conflicted feelings about one's affair, forbidden relationship, lingus, somewhat AU but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LePetitChouNerd/pseuds/LePetitChouNerd
Summary: "Pretend was a game Harry no longer wanted to play. It was clear when he met her – out in the open, sun bathing in the terrace of a lonesome café. By then the affair had reached the magic number of six months. Too long to be considered a lapse in judgment; too short to count as anything life changing."





	An Affair

**Author's Note:**

> "Ode on a Grecian Urn" is a poem by John Keats

Pretend was a game Harry no longer wanted to play. It was clear when he met her – out in the open, sun bathing in the terrace of a lonesome café. By then the affair had reached the magic number of six months. Too long to be considered a lapse in judgment; too short to count as anything life changing.

The in-between of it played out as a melodrama, in which receipts stood in place of cash payments. Servers had a time of it, treading the rather tenuous line of their age difference. One particular waitress (not as pretty as Sara, though younger and more stressed) would shoot them a questioning glance. When she offered to refill Sara’s wine, she fumbled for the right names. “Would your fa-… the good doctor like more wine as well?”

Neither Harry nor Sara missed it, but “the good doctor” (a fact betrayed by his absent-minded aversion to changing clothes after work) could only offer a tacit nod before jumping seamlessly back into conversation. Acknowledgement threatened their secrecy, and it was better to pretend that nothing happened than to risk clarification.

Later, in their rented-out hovel of a room, they would jump into sheets. Their clothes would whisper down the floor in a messy heap; their arms would wrap around the edges of their bones; their hips would knock and graze against the skin. Bruising grips and feathery kisses marked the passage of time in a room that bore no clocks; no windows to hint at the changing skies; no shutters to let in the waning light of a timid sunset.

Their trysts took place in Kadara, when and if work permitted it. It was the only way to “not leave a paper trail,” or so Sara claimed. Harry had a hard time believing it. He may have been an old, meager doctor, but he knew and felt the eyes that would watch their hurried pace; the way they would weave around alleyways teeming with shadows and filth. It was enough to leave a weight on his heavy, somewhat fatigued shoulders.

Sara sensed it in the way her hands would knead the knotted points of tension in his bones, in his arms, and in the grooves of his back. Harry would find relief in her sleepy sighs, the way she breathed over his neck as her fingers netted through the pains that plagued him so.

“What do _you_ have to be so stressed about?” she would ask, incredulous and joking.

Harry, lying on his stomach in the comforts of their creaking bed, would let out a tired chuckle. He knew he had nothing to complain about save the weight of a conflicted conscience. He was sleeping with his best friend’s daughter, and he didn’t know yet how to love her.

Behind closed doors, he would try. He would try in the early hours of dawn, when she would stoop over the sink and rinse last night’s dishes in a fit of sleeplessness. He would crawl in that pathetic, languorous way over to her. He would perch his chin over her shoulder, wrap his arms around her waist, and plant a soundless kiss over her exposed shoulder. And she would laugh, pleasantly surprised by and yet expectant of his ministrations.

His hands would hug the curves of her waist, the jutting of her hips. They would travel around to her plump ass, pinching the softened flesh just as he would bite tenderly around her neck. She was delicious, and there was no stopping his enjoyment of her.

“Go back to sleep,” he would say, and to that Sara couldn’t help but laugh – as if it was _he,_ all along, who kept on playing.

But before she could answer, he would already have a hand skirting up her shorts, hiking them up tighter so that the fabric pinched at her middle. His chest would press against her back as his mouth hovered over her ear, whispering in the soft inhalations of a tired man.

Sara would then play her part as she would slant her back, arching against him so that her bottom bunched up against his boxers, working him up for another round to be lost in the sweat of their sheets.

It always unnerved Harry how easily she would succumb, how she would bend over that kitchen counter, goading him to do what he came there to do; to enjoy what the better part of a sidereal year robbed him of.

By then his hands were already cupping her breasts, relishing in how small and perky they were; how they fit perfectly in his hands. And she appreciated this gesture, no doubt, in the way she would mewl to goad him to a deeper exploration than he was willing, at least for the moment.

Harry liked the taste of Sara. Sometimes he preferred to take things at a slower pace; to protract his precious time with her through fumbling kisses and caresses which were forbidden to them. He liked moving his lips past her nape, tracing the ridges of her spine (smooth, curved – it brought to mind Harry’s favorite poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn”). She would remove her shirt for him, unrolling it past her arms so that it flew to some other nondescript part of their little hovel (cozy, private, and dark). His lips would do the work of biting and nibbling, marking her below her hips as he traveled deep into her thighs, parting her legs to reveal more of her warmth to him.

In this moment, he would lose what little scrap of reality he had left. He would think to himself that this was the first time – _her_ first time – and he would be the first to taste of her sweetened flesh, to trace what wetness slithered along her folds. His hands would pull her apart by her knees, holding her down as she held onto that kitchen counter, and his tongue would run along to her cunt; never mind that he relished the feel of his lips and nose against her bottom. And Sara, who would play along, then made veiled protestations.

“I’m embarrassed!” she would say, blushing coyly as he moved around her, navigating all that was forbidden to everyone but him.

And yet, she would eventually find herself turned around, whimpering as she reclined against the sink. It no longer mattered what game they were playing at. Harry would have had his fill, and he would go back to where it mattered most.

No doubt the neighbors heard them (did they have neighbors? Did the surrounding shanties – endless and encroaching – have voyeurs to speak of?). They might have heard the way the door seemed to rattle with the first thrust. Harry never made any attempts to pretend to be the gentleman. That stopped after the first time.

After all, she liked it.

She would close her eyes – lids almost fluttering – when he would spread her legs around his waist; when he would push his erection inside of her, flowing with her tightened muscles. The small fluorescent light hovering over the sink flickered with their hapless rutting. And with each moment of respite (the slow, agonizing pauses he would take), Sara would sigh out his name; and her hands would dig into his back.

It was then when the sweet nothings would pour out of him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he would say in between ragged breaths. His hips would roll into hers as he said it; their pace lost in a vertiginous push and pull. A free hand would cup her face, keeping their eyes locked together so he would watch as she drowned in the throes of heady passion.

Sara would then try to kiss him, missing in her efforts as her body bounced up and down against him.

“I want your cum inside me,” she would declare. No longer shy; no longer innocent. She would look at him with a yearning that deepened with each clenching of her muscles; with each pumping of his ever-stiffening cock.

Her brown hair fell in haphazard tresses around her shoulders. Harry was lost in all those knots and tangles, burying his lips back into her neck where he bit down in a frenzy.

“Cum inside me,” she repeated, more desperately this time.

And it was then when the pounding would lose control; when the lights flickered like strobe lights as the whole room seemed to shake; and Harry – finding strength he thought he had lost – would plunge himself into her depths, letting his seed spear into her with each ravenous thrust.

They would both sigh, tired from their game, and melt into each other’s arms. Sara’s legs were still wrapped around him, half sitting on the counter and half resting on the strength of his arms. Sinewy and veined from the rush of blood that had swept them away. Harry, for his part, would be content breathing out blistering heat from his lungs; letting his chest expand and exhale as he clung to her small and lithe frame.

He kissed her upon her brows, pushing away what dampened strands lay in their wake.

“I love you,” he said.

Sara smiled, kissing him, but never quite saying as much.


End file.
